Childe of Maria
Childe of Helena
Childe of Minos
Childe of Arikel
They're gathering in the antechamber, milling like so many gnats inside my head. It is still calm for now. A cornucopia, I've always called them, a cornucopia of raw energy and inimitable vice and stupidity. Yes, I abandoned my envy a long time ago.
Humans, kine, the masses, are simply a step backward. A cloudy mess of hot breath and a thousand dimly lit dreams on which none of them would ever dare to act. Truly, they feel too much and too constantly to ever attain the purity of that single, elegant state of being. That neurochemical nonsense I hear Fiends harping on about must surely hold water, and for that, pity is the only acceptable way of dealing with mortals. A human is confused. A human cannot know what it is. It is impossible for them to still that gushing typhoon they contain within those fragile skulls. A creature completely at the mercy of its own being, totally unable to focus and feel to the very heart of anything.
But I digress, am I all that different? If I were to succumb at this very moment, would I be any better than one of... one of them? I lament my own nature, as do we all, and yet I cannot help but think that in the clarity of death this separation of the rational and the animal is nothing less than the next phase in a progression pointed squarely at the divine, however quaint the concept may be. It is that I am aware of my own bestial proclivity that designates me the better of this precisely intimate relationship.
By now they are well and truly on their way. I do hope they make a better show of it than the last week's coop of fledgling fighters. I have been so very careful making my selections, more careful than I've tended to be in recent nights. It's possible to collect the right combination of idealists and socialites such that outbursts are unavoidable. Again, these living things are so predictable in their odd microcosmic chaos that it borders on the humourless at times.
The trick there, is to find just the right relationships to sour, to eviscerate just as they will soon be eviscerating each other. I've certainly put to good use the trick that effete madman taught me, just as he proclaimed I would. Anger is the purest emotion that the rabble are capable of feeling in these times. The world was once that they were so loving, so beguiling in their silly little devotions, now they seem all too ready to knock about the prow of the good ship Mars, with a little push provided, of course. I have not needed to stoop to using direct commands in a very, very long time.
I? I help them. I free them from their own clouded minds. Rage is the emotion du jour and I am their shepherd, guiding them, goading them to the pinnacle of ecstatic outrageous fury. Without me they would never feel anything so pure and total, doomed to wander the halfway roads of the living. The viscount of vitriol, the archdeacon of the acrimonious, the herald of hate. In their last moments they will be perfect and complete.
I sometimes wonder if they are thankful. But, of course, they cannot be: they are too enraptured by the conflict. There is no time for gratitude in the fray.
It is admittedly beautiful, the culmination of all my efforts. The final breath before the plunge. It has never occurred that they become aware of my temporary absence before I find it is time to tip the atmosphere into a deep red and the first blow is struck. There is little I truly enjoy more than watching the bright-eyed one in the little black dress dig her nails into her sister's cheek, or the escort turn on the well-to-do gentleman or woman. To see a look of love turned to fiery damnation is the greatest expression of human emotion I've come to know. But only if the fury is all-consuming.
Eventually they are little more than mangled cadavers. Should one survive here and there, come out on top as it were, well, suffice it to say that my entourage is forever growing. The war-cries die down, the bile ceases to flow, and in its wake is a silence of excellent purity. The shadow of complete mammalian rage is all that remains.
Finally, everything is calm again.
They're gathering in the antechamber, milling like so many gnats inside my head. It is still calm for now. A cornucopia, I've always called them, a cornucopia of raw energy and inimitable vice and stupidity. Yes, I abandoned my envy a long time ago.
Humans, kine, the masses, are simply a step backward. A cloudy mess of hot breath and a thousand dimly lit dreams on which none of them would ever dare to act. Truly, they feel too much and too constantly to ever attain the purity of that single, elegant state of being. That neurochemical nonsense I hear Fiends harping on about must surely hold water, and for that, pity is the only acceptable way of dealing with mortals. A human is confused. A human cannot know what it is. It is impossible for them to still that gushing typhoon they contain within those fragile skulls. A creature completely at the mercy of its own being, totally unable to focus and feel to the very heart of anything.
But I digress, am I all that different? If I were to succumb at this very moment, would I be any better than one of... one of them? I lament my own nature, as do we all, and yet I cannot help but think that in the clarity of death this separation of the rational and the animal is nothing less than the next phase in a progression pointed squarely at the divine, however quaint the concept may be. It is that I am aware of my own bestial proclivity that designates me the better of this precisely intimate relationship.
By now they are well and truly on their way. I do hope they make a better show of it than the last week's coop of fledgling fighters. I have been so very careful making my selections, more careful than I've tended to be in recent nights. It's possible to collect the right combination of idealists and socialites such that outbursts are unavoidable. Again, these living things are so predictable in their odd microcosmic chaos that it borders on the humourless at times.
The trick there, is to find just the right relationships to sour, to eviscerate just as they will soon be eviscerating each other. I've certainly put to good use the trick that effete madman taught me, just as he proclaimed I would. Anger is the purest emotion that the rabble are capable of feeling in these times. The world was once that they were so loving, so beguiling in their silly little devotions, now they seem all too ready to knock about the prow of the good ship Mars, with a little push provided, of course. I have not needed to stoop to using direct commands in a very, very long time.
I? I help them. I free them from their own clouded minds. Rage is the emotion du jour and I am their shepherd, guiding them, goading them to the pinnacle of ecstatic outrageous fury. Without me they would never feel anything so pure and total, doomed to wander the halfway roads of the living. The viscount of vitriol, the archdeacon of the acrimonious, the herald of hate. In their last moments they will be perfect and complete.
I sometimes wonder if they are thankful. But, of course, they cannot be: they are too enraptured by the conflict. There is no time for gratitude in the fray.
It is admittedly beautiful, the culmination of all my efforts. The final breath before the plunge. It has never occurred that they become aware of my temporary absence before I find it is time to tip the atmosphere into a deep red and the first blow is struck. There is little I truly enjoy more than watching the bright-eyed one in the little black dress dig her nails into her sister's cheek, or the escort turn on the well-to-do gentleman or woman. To see a look of love turned to fiery damnation is the greatest expression of human emotion I've come to know. But only if the fury is all-consuming.
Eventually they are little more than mangled cadavers. Should one survive here and there, come out on top as it were, well, suffice it to say that my entourage is forever growing. The war-cries die down, the bile ceases to flow, and in its wake is a silence of excellent purity. The shadow of complete mammalian rage is all that remains.
Finally, everything is calm again.
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